


Welcome to earth

by brozilla



Series: just like fire [2]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alcohol, Drabble, F/M, Fourth of July, M/M, Misunderstandings, Recreational Drug Use, Swearing, TW for murica, Unresolved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-14
Updated: 2018-07-14
Packaged: 2019-06-10 08:54:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15288012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brozilla/pseuds/brozilla
Summary: Tyson’s in a bad mood.





	Welcome to earth

**Author's Note:**

> Do you like late 4th of July fics with stupid angst, quirky dialogue and barely any resolve? Buddy. I got just the thing. (forgot to post this for 10 days because it sucks lol)

Tyson’s in a bad mood. He’s drunk himself into it, knocked back his cup until his vision became blurry and his chest grew heavy with something ugly. No matter what else he drinks or who else he talks to, everything seems to fucking annoy him.

He thinks he knows why. It’s what’s pissing him off the most.

 “Sup’, Bambi?” Someone—Maddie, slurs to his right, eyes barely open, redder than Tyson’s cup. Tyson tries to smile at her, look friendly, but he must do some sort of grimace instead, because she snorts and then laughs. “ _Sheesh_ , that fucking bad? Which one of those assholes got you hidin’ in here?”

“No one.” Tyson mumbles, embarrassed. He looks around at the previously empty kitchen, where he absolutely was hiding. “Just taking a breather.”

“Life takes no breathers, Bambi.” Maddie says profoundly, and then snorts again. She reaches for one of the cupboards, pushing against the door with all her strength before Tyson takes pity on her and makes a pulling motion with his hand.

“Oh, right-o.” Maddie says, and successfully opens the cupboard, taking out 4 family sized bags of Doritos. She piles them over her arms, against her chest. The last one comes up to her chin. Tyson can see her making it to the hallway before dropping everything to the floor. He considers his empty cup, sighs, and sets it on the counter.

“Here.” He says, and takes two bags off her arms, holding them in each hand. The smile Maddie gives him is crooked, but honest. Her teeth are stained and her eye makeup has smudged into a single shade of swampy green. He thinks it’s supposed to be US colors, but he can’t really tell.

“Y’know, Jimothy was right.” She says after a while, knocking their shoulders together. The mention of Comps’ name makes Tyson’s stomach turn. It’s fucking annoying. He looks anywhere but her face and starts walking away.

“Yeah?” Tyson asks, for the sake of it.

“Yeah.” Maddie drawls, accent worsening. She skips happily to his side, Dorito bags rustling dangerously in her arms, still smiling big. “You are so fuckin’ _sweet_ , Bambi.”

(…)

They’re greeted in the living room by a choir of different yelling, mostly related to hunger and some version of “fuck yeah, Doritos”. Tyson drops his two bags on the nearest available laps, pointedly shrugging off the kissy noises and slurred declarations of eternal gratitude he receives.

The plasma TV on the wall is showing a spaceship, and Tyson’s momentarily distracted by the explosions and screaming until his eyes are drawn back to the mess of bodies sprawled around the floor and couches. It’s only when he registers that Comphs’ not here that Tyson realizes he was specifically looking for him.

It’s all he ever seems to fucking do.

“ _Canada_! What’s going on, brother?” Jared—Jason?—asks from the floor, wearing the same big smile Maddie had been giving him earlier. It’s starting to feel patronizing. Maybe even pitiful. Tyson forces out a laugh and a shrug. He spots a bottle of Vodka by his feet and picks it up before sitting on one of the couch’s armrests.

“Just, uh, taking it all in.” Tyson says dumbly when a couple more eyes turn to stare at him.

“Give Mounty a break.” Someone else hollers. “He ain’t used to this much fuckin’ freedom!”

The room erupts with drunken laughter and excessive whooping. Tyson shrugs again, smiling tensely at the bottle in his hands.

It’d be easy for any of these people to put him on the spot, make the obvious joke, ask him what the fuck he’s doing here. They don’t, though. Other than some light jabs when Comphs is around to hear them, they’ve gone easy on him. Too easy. He doesn’t know why, and it unsettles him. There is a paranoid feeling in the back of his head that tells him everyone here knows exactly why he flew out, why he’s been stumbling around looking like a kicked puppy. If they do, then how fucking stupid must he look?

“You’re gonna drink that, babe?” Tyson hears, and snaps out of his thoughts to nod quickly at the girl next to him. “Cool. You lookin’ a little pale, though, you alright?”

“Yeah, I’m—”

“Fuck off, Jen.” Interrupts the muffled voice of the guy passed out on her lap. He lifts up his head to widen his eyes at Tyson. There’s silly string all over his hair. “Don’t let her trick you into talking, bro, she’s taking Psych. ‘Thinks everyone wants to bang their moms and shit.”

“Oh my _God_.” Jen groans. “I don’t think that. No one in Psychology thinks that.”

“’The fuck’s that dude’s name was—Fried! Fried thought that!” The guy exclaims.

“It’s Freud, Oh my _God_.”

Tyson huffs out a real laugh, amused, and unscrews the vodka’s top. He hesitates for half a second before taking the biggest gulp he can. It burns so fucking bad he can’t even keep his eyes open. He hears Jen cheer and someone whistle.

“Fuck yeah, _Canada_!” Fried guy says. Tyson’s chest is warm from the liquor, but he still feels empty all over. He’s done thinking. He doesn’t want to think anymore. He’s still catching his breath from the first swig when he throws back the bottle again. This time he can’t help but cough. Jen doesn’t cheer. He opens his eyes to smile at her, or try to, but she doesn’t smile back. “You sure you’re ok?”

“ _Stooop_ ” Fried Guy grumbles, and she smacks him lightly on the head.

“I’m literally just being a decent human being!”

“No, y’er being a fuckin’ nag. Let Canada drink in peace”

Tyson leans back into the couch and gets lost in their bickering, and the explosions on the TV. “A fuckin’ nag.” He repeats out of nowhere, not even sure why. No one hears him, anyway.

Suddenly, firecrackers start going off in the backyard. First, just a couple, then a bunch, followed by loud shrieking and booming laughter.

“Oh, no way, I was supposed to pop the first one!” Someone yells.  

Most people scramble up to their feet, eager to join the action outside. Jen and Fried Guy get up as well, and Tyson immediately takes the opportunity to fill their spot on the couch. His phone buzzes in his front pocket and he takes it out, blinking fast until the blurriness on the edge of his vision goes away.

“Yo, switch to the Macy’s parade—” Jason (Jared? No, Jason.) starts, but he’s cut off by a bunch of hard _No’s_. “You guys are dicks.” He mumbles, and stomps off the living room, kicking empty red cups out of his way like a kid.

Tyson’s been trying to text back a single person for forever, and he doesn’t think he’s written anything even remotely coherent, but—whatever. Everyone knows where he is and who he’s with. If it’s not his mom or Kacey, Tyson doesn’t give a shit how fucked up he sounds. His phone buzzes in his hand again, and he taps the newest notification without even looking at it.

 

 **Maddie (JT) 9:12pm** _want me 2 get hum ?_

 **Maddie (JT) 9:12pm** _him_

 

Tyson looks up, startled, heartbeat picking up, but the living room has emptied out except for him and three more people who are definitely not Maddie. He lets his head fall back on the couch, exhaling deeply. This text is easy to answer. He only has to tap the _N_ and the autocorrect fills in the rest.

 

 **You 9:14pm** _No_

 

(...)

 _Obviously_ , Comphs stumbles inside the room not even five fucking minutes after that. Tyson sees him, shirt torn open, hair wild, and feels the embarrassing urge to run. He can’t, though, doesn’t even have time to actually consider it, because Comphs spots him easily enough. Comphs also spots the vodka bottle next to him, and the judgy  expression he pulls makes Tyson want to throw it at his fucking face.

No one says anything as Comphs sits by his side. There’s a lot of noise coming from the backyard, a lot of “ _ooh’s_ ” and “ _aaah’s_ ”, and a lot of colors, too, flashes of red, white and blue light. Inside, though, it’s quiet. Well, as quiet as it could be with Bill Pullman giving his president speech on TV. Tyson tries to focus on that instead of the warm pressure of Comphs’ thigh against his own, the strip of his bare chest he can see from the corner of his eye.

“We will not go gently into the night.” A guy mutters along with the movie, sprawled on the floor like a starfish, eyes closed. Americans are fucking insane, Tyson thinks, not for the first time that day.

Comphs chuckles next to him. “Intense, uh?” he asks. His voice sounds like gravel. It’s embarrassing how it sends a tingle up Tyson’s spine. He grabs the vodka just so he can do something with his hands.

“You’re missin’ the fireworks.” Tyson slurs, and clears his throat.

“So are you.”

“I don’t really—not really my thing.”

“Mm. Okay.”

Silence falls between them, and it’s not comfortable. There are a million things that Tyson wants to say. A million things he wants to ask. Like: why am I here? Why did you ask me to come here if you were going to ignore me? Why haven’t you kissed me yet? _Why haven’t you fucking kissed me yet?_

Maybe Tyson should’ve held off that second shot of Vodka. His phone buzzes, and they both look down at it. The lockscreen shows Maddie’s name above a couple of rainbows and red hearts. Tyson likes Maddie, he really does, but God damn it.

“Uh—” he starts, and stops when Comphs takes the Vodka bottle out of his hands, weirdly gentle, and sets it on the ground at their feet.   

“Missed you at dinner, man.”

Well. That’s cute. Anger flares hot and sudden in Tyson’s chest and he holds out his arms abruptly, waving around himself. “I’ve been right here, _man_. Right here. You’re the one who fucking—” A particularly loud boom echoes in the backyard. Tyson exhales, drops his arms. “Never mind.”

“No, what? I, _what_? I came here like half an hour ago and you weren’t here, so don’t give me that bullshit.” Comphs says. Tyson turns his head to glare at him, but Comphs’ a lot fucking closer than he’d anticipated, and his breathing catches in his throat, loud and embarrassing. Comphs’ expression is soft, unguarded, eyes huge and darker than usual, pupils blown to the max.

“You’re high.” Tyson mumbles before he can help himself.

Comphs smiles. “You’re drunk.”

“And _I’m_ gonna barf.” The guy on the floor informs, making Tyson jump. He watches the pale-looking dude go on his hands and knees, and knee-walk out of living room, into the hallway, probably off to find a bathroom. The sight is so fucking funny Tyson can’t help but giggle. He hears Comphs snort, too.

Then he feels the light touch of lips against his ear, and a hand settle over his own, covering his thigh. “Come with me.” Comphs murmurs.

Tyson swallows. There’s still people around, going in and out through the glass doors, but no one’s paying them any attention. “Where?”

“Just, _c’mon_.”

After a beat Comphs adds, almost as if he’s in a rush: “It’s been nuts, Tys, everyone asking for shit, wanting to talk.” He rests his forehead against Tyson’s temple, breathing. His voice is barely a murmur. “‘Couldn’t shake ‘em off, ‘couldn’t look for you. You weren’t fuckin’ anywhere, no one ever knew where you were. Mads had to fuckin’—yank me out the ‘yard just now.”

Tyson blinks, once, twice. He leans back to look Comphs in the eye. “You weren’t avoiding me?” he asks. The weight on his chest is getting lighter by the second. His shoulders drop in relief after what felt like endless hours of tension. Comphs laughs. “No, Tys. What the fuck, even.” he says. “I thought _you_ were avoiding me.”

“What the fuck, even.” Tyson repeats, helpless to the smile that’s overtaking his entire face. They stare at each other, smiling like a pair of fucking idiots. (It’s what Nate has called them, again and again, a pair of fucking idiots.) Tyson looks down at Comphs’ hand on his, turns his palm over until he can put his fingers through Comphs’ and grip them tight. Comphs’ red rimmed eyes crinkle at the corners.

“You’re so—”

“Sweet?” Tyson cuts. He lets his smile turn sly, his eyelids drop, in that way he’s been told make his lashes look “ _damn pretty_ ”. “So, you have time for me, now? ‘Think you can fit me in your schedule, big guy?”

“Oh, I can _squeeze_ you right in.” Comphs says, and squeezes his fingers.

(...)  


End file.
